


White Dove

by SpicyReyes



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Internalized Transphobia, Self-Hatred, Trans Female Character, Trans!Sanji, Trans!Sanji AU, mtf!sanji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23347186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: Sanji set out to find the All Blue.She finds herself in the meantime.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 133





	White Dove

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a trans female ed au and guess what bitches I'm doing it again 
> 
> Warning because Sanji is,,,,very mean to themselves in all my fics, but especially this one  
> He/him pronouns are used up until they come to terms with their identity so warning for that as well

As a kid, Sanji didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. 

He knew he hated himself, from the inside out, but he had a list of reasons for that. Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw something  _ wrong  _ in him, but he’d never been what he was supposed to be, so this simply made sense. 

After he left Germa, he had a little more time to feel out who he was, besides his love of cooking. 

One of the men on the ship was a creeper who kept pictures of women, and Sanji found that admiring these was a major love of his. There was something ethereal about a woman, something undefined that captivated him. 

They went down with the rest of the ship. Sanji had plenty of time to mourn them.

For the first few weeks he was in Zeff’s care, he was back to his childhood- a feral animal focused on survival, suspicious of everyone and everything around him. 

Zeff, though, was not terrible with handling his fear. He did not tell him to relax, did not say there was no reason to be afraid - he  _ taught.  _ He showed Sanji how to fight, and fight to win. He showed Sanji how to tell when something was wrong, in food or in life.

And he was the first one to watch Sanji, stood on a chair to peek out the kitchen window at a group of women dining, and ask, “What exactly are you looking for?” 

Sanji faltered, looking away from the table, to the chef, then back again. “...They’re pretty?”

“And?”

Sanji stared at him, at a loss. “I...don’t know? I just like them.” 

“Hm.”

That was it. He turned around, walked away, and said nothing else. 

It planted a seed, though - a worry that ate at Sanji for years. Every once in a while, he’d catch himself watching a woman, and wonder,  _ what was it  _ that drew him so much? Why was he so fascinated? What did he want to gain from it? 

Then puberty hit, and things got a lot more confusing. 

First, on the ‘women’ front, Sanji learned that he liked them  _ that way,  _ but occasionally, he took interest in a man, as well. This made it even stranger to him, what drew him to women, because his attraction to them was fundamentally... _ different _ . Sure, he could picture himself with them, but that wasn’t the first thing on his mind when he saw them. 

He became obsessed with their details - he developed an uncanny eye for the shapes and sizes of bodies, a taste for their fashions, memorized types of walks and postures, anything he could learn to understand more about women as a whole, and it wasn’t enough. There was something  _ missing,  _ some fact he could always sense, just outside his reach, never quite making sense. He always  _ wanted,  _ and he didn’t know what. 

His teens came, and he wanted to experiment. He wanted to lie with a woman, to see her up close, to know if that was the knowledge he missed.

He won over a girl, kissed her sweetly and reverently, and she reached out a hand, fingertips brushing-

-And it was like the iron trap was closed around his head again, like he was drowning again, like he was starving on that rock in the ocean. There was pain, and there was panic, and he couldn’t do anything more than stutter apologies and run. 

It was humiliating, and Sanji endured his fellow restaurant staff teasing him about the encounter they seemed to believe he’d gone through with, face burning and gut churning in an unexpressed shame. 

“Oi, boy,” a chef called one day, speaking to Sanji.

“None of that,” another jeered. “Didn’t you hear? Sanji’s a  _ man  _ now.”

_ “Shut up!” _

The kitchen went dead silent. 

In his anger, Sanji had thrown the thing he was holding down. While yelling, especially that phrase, was not uncommon in the kitchen, the level of rage in his voice was- as was the fact that Sanji had just done something he frequently referred to as unforgivable. 

He looked down, horror slowly dawning, watching the soup spread slowly across the kitchen tile.

Scattered rats in his mind’s eye, fleeing broken dishes, trying to get free before Ichiji could stomp them, punish them for taking part in his foolishness-

A rock at sea, even rotted food a delicacy, chewing a filthy rock just to pretend-

He dropped to his knees, reaching out, fingers brushing through the broth. He scraped across the tiles, gathering up chunks of meat and vegetables, trying to round up the substance. Save it, save it, save it-

A hand caught his wrist.

Sanji looked up, meeting Zeff’s eyes, and quickly shook his head. “I have to- I dropped-...”

Zeff looked down, and Sanji followed his gaze, as the head chef turned his hand over, showing it to him. His fingers were cut in several places, bits of ceramic stuck in his skin - his desperate scramble had gotten him smashing the shattered bowl into his hands. 

Sanji’s eyes burned. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, looking up to Zeff. “I wasted it. I-...”

“We have the resources to replace it,” Zeff said, entirely calm. “We don’t have any way to replace  _ you,  _ though, so don’t hurt yourself. Come with me, we’ll get this sorted.”

“I have to-...”

“These good-for-nothing louts can clean it up themselves,” Zeff dismissed. “Come on.” 

They found themselves closed away in Zeff’s quarters, the man gently picking ceramic chips from his hands, the sensation grounding, if painful. 

When the last chip was freed, Zeff set the dish he was dropping them onto off to the side, grabbing a cloth and starting to clean the open wounds. 

As the drag of it across stinging skin calmed Sanji’s frayed nerves, Zeff said, “You put too much pressure on yourself, brat.”

Sanji’s fingers flexed. He wanted to close them into fists, but there was no way to with Zeff’s stronger grip holding his hands hostage. “I-...”

“You don’t have to be everything at once,” Zeff said. “Just because someone else expects something from you, doesn’t mean it’s your job to deliver it. Some people, some day, are gonna have to get over it. You do what you have to, but be who you want. Don’t try to build something with every miscellaneous piece they throw you - nothing like that ever works.”

Sanji pressed his lips into a thin line, giving a single, jerky nod. 

Disinfectant splashed across his skin, burning, and he winced.

“What you  _ do _ build,” Zeff continued, “some people might not like. And that might feel like shit, but so does this. Sometimes getting hurt is something you just have to do. Can’t get any better until you’ve burnt away the bad.”

“I don’t-...” Sanji said, staring into his palms. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Zeff huffed. “You’re skinny.”

Sanji looked up, eyebrows knitting together. “What?”

“You’re too skinny,” Zeff said, still working on his hands. “And you smoke more and more every day, stinking up my damn ship. And we can’t let you go out to the tables, because you are completely unprofessional.” He set aside his blood-stained rag, picking up a roll of gauze and starting to wrap Sanji’s hands. “Other than that, nothing.” 

Sanji stared at him.

Finishing the wraps, Zeff sat back, looking up at Sanji at last. “There you go, brat,” he said. “Hurt your hands like that again and I’ll kick your teeth out.”

Sanji kept watching him, heart pounding, eyes burning.

“I didn’t go through with it,” Sanji confessed. “I couldn’t. I- I felt-...” 

Zeff pushed to his feet. “You don’t want to, then don’t. Spare me the details, otherwise.” 

“But, it’s-..” Sanji said, desperate to make him understand, so that at least  _ one  _ of them could. “It’s  _ me.  _ I didn’t want- She was going to-...”

Zeff sighed. “I’m gonna say this once, and then the topic is banned,” he said. “Do things at your own pace. Work out what you want, even if it takes time. And  _ ignore  _ those dipshits out there, and their opinions on it. Their opinions on  _ you,  _ too. Like I said- at the end of the day, it’s you who has to live with you, before the rest of us. So long as you end up somewhere you are comfortable with…” He shook his head. “I’m no damn poet. Do what you feel like, take opinions with a grain of salt. Listen to  _ me,  _ though - you dismiss my opinions and I’ll beat you into the ground.”

Sanji felt himself smile, and gave a sharp nod. 

“Alright,” Zeff said. He turned to leave, but then paused, looking back over his shoulder at Sanji. 

“What?” Sanji asked.

“Nothing,” Zeff said, shaking his head, looking away. “Just...working on a thought.”

And that was it - they moved on. Sanji pushed it away, and told himself he was meant to admire from a distance.

There were other incidents, here and there: a drunk man called him ‘beautiful’ and his stomach dropped out, he saw a group of women in suits and became obsessed with them, he repeatedly found himself becoming unable to function if any of his attentions were ever actively returned…

And then he joined Luffy’s crew, and it didn’t matter for a while. He had a new purpose, was getting closer to his dream every day, and had a group of friends. Things were good, and then they were great, and everything seemed to be going their way-

-And then it fell apart, and they were seperated, and they were told to return two each other in two years’ time. 

And Sanji was on an island that made something deep inside him start squirming. 

It was on Kamabakka, though, before any of that, that Sanji finally put some pieces together.

  
  
  
  


“Traditional fighting gear,” they’d called it, but to Sanji it was just  _ women’s clothes,  _ the dress and the shoes and the makeup they insisted on putting on his face.

It felt...odd. Like wearing a costume that would have felt comfortable, but was the wrong fit. The dress was hideous, trapping his feet in shoes he wasn’t used to was a terrible disadvantage, and his face felt disgusting with a layer of power caked over the top of it. 

And then, they gave him a mirror.

“Aren’t you cute?” the one who’d done his makeup asked. “I think it suits you.” 

Sanji brought a hand up, hovering the fingertips over his face.

_ Wrong,  _ he thought, looking at it.  _ Something’s…. _

“Do you have….” Sanji started, then stopped, staring at himself. 

_ That’s dramatic. It’s just for the fight-... _

A razor was held in front of his eyes. “The goatee, mm? I think it’s cute, but if it bothers you…” 

“...Yeah,” Sanji said, watching himself in the mirror like a stranger. 

The girl in the glass stared right back. 

  
  
  
  


"You shaved," Ivankov cooed. "What a shame. I liked the scruff."

"It didn't look right," Sanji said, responding without thinking. 

A light sparked in Ivankov's eyes. "Oh?" He tipped his head. "You wanted a softer face, mm?" 

Sanji scowled. His hands worried at the fabric hanging at his sides, but he forced them to still, pulling them away - he didn't need to remember what he was wearing. He just needed to win the fight. 

  
  
  
  


He didn't win. 

He couldn't really say he'd lost, either, though. It was more like Ivankov simply decided their fight was cancelled in the middle of it. He'd stopped dodging, never fought back, and reached a hand out, tucking a finger under Sanji's chin. 

Sanji watched him with wide eyes as something sharp stuck into his skin. 

A moment later, he felt something shift- the finger left his chin, and it felt like his body chased it, shrinking down half an inch or so. The fabric of the dress stopped pinching at his shoulders, but instead pulled tighter across his chest. Beneath the dress, he could feel his boxers starting slipping down a centimeter to hang oddly on his hips. 

He shifted, and his whole body felt different, foreign. 

He looked down. 

A woman's body greeted him. 

"W-what the fuck?!" Sanji shouted, reaching up, hand bunching in the fabric at his chest, pulling it out a bit to inspect the changes, as though he might discover them to be hallucinations. 

No such luck. His body was solid, all the way through, just changed shape, morphing into a new form. 

"This isn't my body!" Sanji said, looking up at Ivankov. "What did you do?"

"It  _ could  _ be your body," Ivankov said. "If you want to keep it. I could change it back, too, if you preferred it the other way? Most go for somewhere in between, I find."

Sanji felt himself shaking. "What….what did you  _ do?" _

"Do you like it?" Ivankov asked. 

"I-...!" 

Sanji stopped. Slowly, he looked down, taking in his new shape. 

"It….its not mine."

"Hmm, no, not quite," Ivankov said. He stepped up again, one pointed finger coming out, stabbing into Sanji's skin again. His height and build returned, but not completely - his waist had the slightest taper, and his chest was very slightly softer. 

"What is this?" Sanji asked. "What are you..?"

"Low dose estrogen," Ivankov said, needles retreating back into his fingertips. "The first was a full body transformation, but as a combatant, you are likely fond of the build you already made for yourself. This is just to soften you at the edges a bit, bring out the inner lady." He tapped Sanji on the end of the nose. "Unnecessary, but I thought you would prefer it. If you went through the trouble to shave, 'traditional' sticks pretty deep with you, hm?"

"I don't-..." Sanji gaped at him. "I'm not-...!"

A woman?

The words caught in his throat. 

Why….

...why did that feel so much like a lie?

"You didn't realize," Ivankov murmured, looking at him closely. "You never noticed anything different about yourself? Nothing at all? No feelings, no thoughts?"

Sanji's stomach turned. "It- it isn't like that."

"Isn't it?"

Sanji stiffened...then raised a hand, flattening against his heart, feeling his own heartbeat through an unfamiliar chest. 

"Consider it," Ivankov said. "I'll get you a room to rest for a bit. If you decide you'd rather keep yourself as you were, I'll change it back without protest." 

Sanji's heart pounded, and as guards in exaggerated makeup and skirts escorted him to his temporary room, all he could think of was a shattered bowl on the floor of the Baratie, some chef's voice ringing in his ears,  _ Sanji's a man now.  _

And how he'd dropped the bowl onto the floor, because that was the worst thing he'd ever heard. 


End file.
